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LX.
Like
as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do
our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place
with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all
forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of
light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time
that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth
transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the
parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of
nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe
to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall
stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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